


Wishin' and Hopin'

by Maeerin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coma, Hurt Sherlock, Love Confessions, M/M, Not Season/Series 04 Compliant, The lying detective
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2018-11-02 06:45:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10939140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeerin/pseuds/Maeerin
Summary: Wishin' and Hopin' - Dusty Springfield"So if you're lookin to find love you can share, all you gotta do is hold him and kiss him and love him, and show him that you care..."Sherlock's left in a coma after being nearly strangled by Culverton Smith. This is how John deals with it.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> keep an eye on the tags. I have an idea where this is going and it's likely going to get darker, if you've read my work before. If you have concerns you can ask me on tumblr for privacy, watsonsanatomy.tumblr.com 
> 
> No major character death though.

**Prologue**

 

John barged into the hospital room to see Culverton Smith leaning over Sherlock, who was frighteningly still.

“What the hell are you doing?” John demanded as he hurried forward. One look of Sherlock’s still body told him just enough to reprimand Smith and drag him away, tossing him carelessly at the guard.

“Arrest him,” John insisted as he hurried closer to Sherlock. Sherlock’s face was lax, his chest unmoving, and the area around his mouth becoming a faded blue.

“Jesus,” John gasped as he instantly straightened up, tilted Sherlock’s head back, and pressed his mouth against his. He blew air into Sherlock’s mouth, watched his chest rise and fall, and repeated his actions several times. He compressed his chest to pump the blood in his veins, and went on tiredly as Lestrade apprehended Culverton, as nurses surrounded Sherlock and tried to pry John’s trying hands and mouth from his best friend.

John’s vision swayed as they finally pulled him away enough to tend to Sherlock themselves. John watched in horrifying slow motion as a nurse placed a tube down Sherlock’s throat, then ushered John out of the room before he could fully catch his breath.

A few hours later, Mycroft showed up, and stayed in the room with the doctors, before finally opening the door and silently allowing John back in. John walked around the large bed and observed Sherlock’s state. Sherlock was reclined at a slight angle with a tube in his mouth, taped to the side of his cheek, and hooked up to a ventilator. Mycroft stood in the corner, his posture stiff, and his expression grave.

John looked at him, raised an eyebrow, urging him to just say it, whatever it was going to be. John knew he wasn’t ready, and would never be.

“The doctors are not sure how long he was unconscious for, without oxygen,” Mycroft began. “They’re not sure yet about his brain function, and will be running an EEG and an MRI in the morning.”

John’s jaw and fists clenched and he looked back at Sherlock. Sherlock looked pale, thinner than usual, but alive, as if he was just sleeping. It almost looked like his eyes were even moving beneath his lids, but John knew it was just his own eyes playing tricks on him. He cleared his throat, and spoke.

“Will he wake up?”

John could hear Mycroft shuffle in the slightest way possible, shifting his weight off his umbrella and preparing himself to leave the tension filled room. John took his hesitation as the answer, but Mycroft spoke anyway.

“They’re not sure, yet. They’ll run tests—.”

“And you haven’t urged for the tests as fast as possible?” John countered as he turned around to face him. “You’re willing to wait till morning?”

Mycroft met his eye without hesitation. “It’s the earliest I could manage.”

John scoffed and turned back towards Sherlock. He wanted to scream at him to wake up, he wanted to cry, thinking maybe that will catch Sherlock’s attention, or something. He wanted his noise back, his presence, and him sleeping like this, like he was perfectly alive was making this entire situation seem like a bad dream, or a joke. John found he couldn’t quite breathe, so he turned on his heal and left the room without another word.

*            *            *

He didn’t return until three days later, alone. He entered Sherlock’s room and hovered around the bed, not looking at Sherlock, but highly aware of the hissing and beeping of the machines, the ventilator and heart monitor, and such. He clenched his fists, unsure what to say. The doctors had told him the diagnosis, but it didn’t feel real. How could Sherlock Holmes have fallen into a coma this fast, with no warning, no suspenseful event making it inevitable? He hadn’t fallen or hit his head, and yet here he was, silent, still…not _Sherlock_.

John clenched his jaw and placed his hands on the railing of the foot of the hospital bed. He looked at Sherlock slowly, and his heart throbbed. He had so much to say, but didn’t know where to start.

“You didn’t kill her,” he blurted out, louder than he intended. He bowed his head and fell silent. He’d do anything for a response; he would rather have Sherlock tell him that it was okay, that it wasn’t okay, that he would rather seen anybody but John—anything, just to hear his voice.

John rubbed his eyes. “Oh, Sherlock…” he murmured. He remained standing like that for several minutes, and then he turned to leave, heading towards the door with a slight limp. As he opened the door, a ringtone pierced the silent, that of a seductive sigh.

John’s back went rigid.

_58…_

He scoffed, and then turned around. He could easily imagine Sherlock give him a confused look, as if he was oblivious to the text alert noise. But Sherlock remained unresponsive.

He walked to where the phone was lying screen down on the table. He lifted his hand to pick it up, but then paused.

_She’s alive, then? Do they text a lot, or only on special occasions—_

John looked up at Sherlock, widening his eyes. He stepped closer to him, held his fists by his side, and looked at his friend.

“Happy birthday,” John said, his voice firm, until the last syllable threatened his composure. He scoffed again, and shook his head.

“You bloody…moron—have you been texting her all this time? She’s out there, she likes you, and you’re not with her. Why? Do you… have any _idea_ how lucky you are?”

John was raising his voice now, leaning forward and staring accusingly at Sherlock. He clenched his fists and paced in a circle, intending to leave but changing his mind and rounding onto Sherlock again.

“You should have taken that chance…still should if you still can, because it doesn’t last forever, Sherlock. It’s gone before you know it—before _you_ know it!”

John pointed aimlessly at Sherlock and then withdrew himself. He paced a small distance by the bed, and ran a hand over his face.

"She was wrong, Sherlock. Mary. She was wrong about me. Thought I’d rescue you if you put your life in danger, or something but…” John took a shaky breath. “She was wrong. I was late. I was too late…and it’s not—not okay, Sherlock, it’s not.”

His voice wasn’t firm anymore, and he looked at Sherlock, lying in the bed, as if he were dead.

John’s lip trembled and he covered his face with his hand just as the tears began to leak out of the corner of his eyes. He reached blindly to the edge of the bed, and leaned forward until he was resting his forehead against the sheets, feeling Sherlocks arm and hip underneath him. The tears kept coming, creating spots beneath him of tears, spit, and snot. His back shuddered as he cried, and his hand trailed across Sherlock and grabbed onto his other hand. John kept himself up with his legs, but continued to clutch onto Sherlock as if he was going to collapse.

He cried silently, occasionally sobs making a way out of his throat in whimpers. He lost how much time had passed, and didn’t bother moving even once the tears finally stopped. He remained there, half on Sherlock’s body; exhausted, and only moved once he was about to pass out into sleep.

Forcing himself to be quick, he straightened up, wiped his face, and gave Sherlock a nod, before heading to the door, without saying another word.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

John walked into the hospital room, carrying Rosie in his arms. He saw Sherlock in a reclining position, sleeping as he had been doing for the past two weeks. He bounced Rosie slightly, earning a little giggle from her, and walked further into the room.

“Good morning, Sherlock,” John said calmly. “Rosie’s here; Rosie, say hi to Sherlock. Could you do that, darling? Say hi to Sherlock.”

Rosie made a little incoherent noise, and waved her hand, which was holding a stuffed animal, a bee, at Sherlock, and weakly tossed it.

“You want to share your bee with Sherlock? Alright, you can sit right here.” John placed Rosie on the bed, near Sherlock’s hand and placed the toy on both of their hands. Rosie held herself up and played with the toy, seemingly unaware of Sherlock’s unresponsiveness.

John pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down with a huff.

“She’s growing so fast. She’s almost a year old. Molly wants to throw her a party at her flat. She suggested a bee theme, although I’m not sure where she got that idea. It probably would be tedious for you though, children’s parties aren’t a place for murders.”

John paused and looked at Sherlock’s face, still and lax, with growing scruff along his jaw and chin.

“You’ll need a shave soon. I’ll probably do it again; it seems the nurses are allowing it—a lot actually, for me. They even offered me a cot.” John laughed, though it was short and quickly became humorless. “I can’t bring Rosie though, there’s not enough room. And I have work, and…people are constantly coming and going, you know, they’re being very helpful with Rosie, but, god, Sherlock, they keep asking me if I’m alright, you know, how I’m dealing with all this. First Mary, then you…”

John clenched his jaw and grinned slightly, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

“You’re not dead though. You’re just sleeping. In a coma though, medically speaking. Sometimes I wish it were me. Maybe it wouldn’t be so difficult for you…”

John fiddled with the alabaster blanket over Sherlock’s lap, and watched Rosie fiddle with her little bee.

“I think I’ll shave you—god, the sound of that…just, let me get the tools. C’mon, Rosie.”

Rosie let out a short cry, complaining about being moved.

“You have to come with me, darling, only for a second. I don’t want you to fall. And no, Sherlock can’t watch you, as badly he may want to, ha—” John almost laughed, but no comeback from Sherlock deteriorated his attempt at a joke.

John bounced her slightly and with one hand, gathered the shaving kit from the bathroom, placed that under his arm, and then held a small bowl of water. He set Rosie back down on the bed, and she went back to her toy as if she’d never been bothered. John stepped closer to Sherlock, moved his bed back slightly, tilted his head, and began to shave Sherlock’s face carefully.

“Don’t worry, I won’t scar you skin. It’ll still be like marble when you wake up. And you better do that, git, or otherwise…I’ll never forgive you…”

John inhaled sharply and finished a swipe. He cleared his throat and squeezed his eyes slightly before reopening them and leaning closer to Sherlock’s ear.

“You’d better fucking wake up, Sherlock,” he said, and the he straightened up and continued shaving. “And yeah, I know, Rosie wouldn’t have understood any of that, crude or not, but still. I’m serious, Sherlock.” He glared at him lightly and leaned away.

Sherlock’s face was so still. The bruises and cuts on her face were starting to fade, but the presence of them reminded John what he had done. John bit his lip and caressed Sherlock’s cheek, but he pulled away quickly, ashamed. He didn’t deserve Sherlock; if he ever woke up, John swore he’d keep his distance, apologize in however way he could, but didn’t dare to hope Sherlock would forgive him. John exhaled slowly, and then resumed his task.

Once finished, John put the shaving supplies away into the kit and set it down on the bedside table. He didn’t want to move Rosie, who was still fascinated by the bee. John reclined in his chair, accustomed to not having much else to do. He didn’t always bring Rosie with him, but deep down he thought that maybe—just maybe—Sherlock would wake up for her. John knew Sherlock was fond of Rosie, as was Rosie of Sherlock. Maybe that would be a reason. John didn’t have much faith in himself as someone Sherlock would wake up for.

Not much time passed though, when John noticed Rosie was losing interest in the bee, and nearly toppled over for a needed nap. John picked up his daughter and she lay against him, her eyes already closing. John picked up the bee, but on second thought, placed it back by Sherlock’s hand.

“I better be going then,” John said. “Rosie will sleep for a couple of hours, but I just…” John was running out of excuses to leave everyday now, but he also couldn’t bare being in the room all day. He wanted to stay longer, even just to beg or bargain for Sherlock to wake up, but as a doctor, he knew the likelihood of that happening was small. So instead, he picked up the bag of Rosie’s diapers and such, and headed out of the room.

“Bye, Sherlock. See you...later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are catnip, and I'm Abraham Delacey Giuseppe Casey Thomas O'Malley.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late :/

**(The timeline is confusing in the show, while trying to align His Last Vow to the Lying Detective. As basic as possible, His Last Vow happened, a few weeks go by and Mary gives birth, and this fic takes place a year after that so Rosie is just about a year and it has already been Sherlock’s birthday in January.)**

 

Chapter 2

 

John flipped the calendar hanging in the corner of Sherlock’s hospital room to the month of February. He wasn’t alone; Rosie was sitting on the bed, playing with her bee and another stuffed animal, a butterfly. She made incoherent noises, sometimes sounding like she was offended or bored, which John thought she had picked up from Sherlock those few times he had babysat, but otherwise the sounds were meaningless. John turned his back to her and looked out the window. The scene was just starting to burst with early springtime, drenched in heavy rainfall. Flower petals imprinted the sidewalks, and heavily watered grass brightened against the gloomy skies.

A small cry interrupted his thoughts, and he turned to see Rosie reaching for her bee and pulling it away from Sherlock’s hand. John went over to her and tried to soothe her.

“What is it? Is he not playing with you?” John inquired, dismissing the joke immediately, and feeling bad. Rosie shouldn’t have to be playing by herself while a man slept forever; it wasn’t fair to her.

“My—,” Rosie tried to say as she clutched the animal to her chest.

“Yes, yours. Though you can share, can’t you?”

Rosie whimpered and reached for John.

“Come here, then, what’s the matter?” he asked softly as he picked her up.

John glanced down at Sherlock just in time to see his finger twitch. He gasped, and then froze. He swayed on his feet, and waited for another twitch, but it didn’t come.

As a doctor, John knew it was normal for involuntary muscle movement to occur in coma patients. But seeing it happen and not mean any kind of potential felt like a cruel joke; a tease of something that wasn’t realistic and would likely never happen.

John rocked Rosie in his arm, trying to calm himself down. He murmured and cooed but couldn’t take his eyes off Sherlock’s hand. He stood like that for several moments, before glancing up at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock was clean-shaven, and had gotten the ventilator taken out last week—which was a promising sign. He was breathing on his own, but not waking up. John blamed himself, and didn’t bother trying to redeem himself either. He didn’t want to ask for forgiveness for the way he treated Sherlock before all this; he would if it guaranteed Sherlock to wake up and never want to see him again—having Sherlock alive and aware was anything John could want, even if he wasn’t in his life ever again.

A couple of tears feel down John’s cheeks. He sniffled and gathered their things whilst holding Rosie in his arms against his hip.

“I almost would have preferred a cruel joke,” he said. “If it was some elaborate April Fool’s joke, I’d be happy to play the fool for you, Sherlock, I would.”

John inhaled deeply and by the door, he glanced at Sherlock.

“P-please, stop this—,” John started. “I can’t wait till April—,” a laughter escaped his throat. His lip trembled. “I don’t know how to do this again,” John said slowly. He cleared his throat, and then left, whispering a goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are gold and I am Smaug :)


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll take a few liberties for this fic and not be completely medically accurate for a coma patient. If you want that kind of angst, read Wait and he will be gone on my works page :)

**Chapter 3**

There was silence in Sherlock’s presence now. Before, it was only silent when Sherlock was thinking, but occasionally, there were huffs and grunts, and the noise from outside still provided a sense of living at Baker Street. Cars drove by. Kettle boiled. Violin strings plucked, and keyboard typed on. Now, with a near soundproof window and monitors beeping in a continue rhythm, the silence emphasized the absence, as if Sherlock didn’t exist at all.

John despised it.

It was worse than before.

When John wasn’t at the hospital, there were times he almost forgot about Sherlock, or at least, he didn’t sit in his chair staring at nothing for hours thinking about him. Rosie needed him, and for the times Molly helped out, or the babysitter Lucy, John spent his free time at the clinic, running errands—not thinking about Sherlock.

But when John visited Sherlock, he’d become nearly completely unhinged.

*            *            *

“Wake up, Sherlock. Now. You’ve been at it for long enough. It’s bloody time!”

*            *            *

“If you wake up now, I won’t bother you anymore. I’ll leave, or stay, whatever you want me to do. I’ll leave you forever if you wake the fuck up now! P-Please!”

“Don’t fret, Rosie’s with Molly.”

*            *            *

“There was an interesting case in the news this morning. Took Scotland Yard quite a few weeks. I’m sure you wouldn’t have had to leave the flat.”

“Nothing? You’d be brilliant…”

“Alright then. Fine.”

*            *            *

John entered the hospital room late one morning, carrying Rosie with him this time.

“Morning, Sherlock,” he said casually. “Rosie took her first steps last night. Wished I had filmed it for you, but I didn’t want my hands full in case she fell.”

He sat her down in her usual spot, and set his bag down in the corner.

“Now I just need to get her to talk,” Jon conversed. “How’d you suppose I do that? I talk to her, Mrs. Hudson and Molly do too, but she just mumbles. Maybe she’s just stubborn, like you apparently, when it comes to waking up—,”

John turned away sharply and stared at the window. He thought he could do this, be cheerful and try to talk to Sherlock, to let him know he still has him, to encourage him somehow that he’s not alone, but it was all getting to him. The loneliness. The self-resentment.

Rain splattered against the window, and he felt lonelier, despite having a daughter to coddle, and friends who coddled him. But he missed Sherlock so much, greater than ever before. Their relationship was strained, but John hoped deep down it would improve once they both healed, physically and mentally. And all the things John had wanted to say, but hadn’t, overwhelmed his mind with regret. John didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to do this.

Three weeks felt like a lifetime.

A knock on the door startled John. Molly stepped in slowly, offering John a pained smile.

“Molly,” John greeted tiredly. “What are you doing here?”

Molly ignored the question and gestured to Rosie.

“I just thought I’d see you here. I can take Rosie off your hands for you. You seeme like you need some sleep.”

John shrugged and ran his hand over his face. He smiled at Molly softly and nodded.

“That’ll be great, thank you.”

Molly picked up Rosie, and John handed her the bag.

“I’ll see you later, darling,” John said as he kissed her forehead.

Rosie cried out in protest.

“I know, we just got here, but Sherlock is asleep, and I don’t know if he’ll wake up today.”

John looked away from her and glanced the Sherlock, anger flashing in his eyes. He shook his head and looked back at Rosie.

“Say goodbye to Sherlock.”

Rosie made an incoherent sound, and then sighed, “bye.”

John paused and the anger dissipated. He started to grin, and looked at Rosie.

“That’s my girl, that’s it. You spoke! Can you do it again?” he asked. Molly smiled and bounced Rosie slightly in her arms.

Rosie made a sound again, giggled, and said, “I—.”

“I?” John repeated. “Or hi? How about hi, can you say hi?”

“Eh.”

“Hi? Or bye again?” John smiled, sadly but proud.

“B-ye,” Sherlock sighed from behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments gold and I am Smaug :)


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 

John froze. Molly looked over his shoulder, but John didn’t move just yet. He clenched his jaw, inhaled deeply, and then straightened up and turned around. He stared at Sherlock, who stared back. Sherlock’s eyes were slightly open and already drooping, as if he was about to fall back into oblivion.

“Stay awake,” John demanded in a quick, slightly loud, tone. Without removing his gaze, he reached for the call button and pressed it. Sherlock watched his movements, but his blinks grew heavier.

“John—,” Sherlock whispered hoarsely. He closed his eyes, momentarily at first, but then didn’t reopen them.

“Sherlock?” John gently shook Sherlock’s shoulders but he didn’t reopen his eyes, or make another sound.

“Sherlock,” he said more sternly.

Sherlock’s face scrunched up slightly, and he whispered, “Yes?”

John exhaled with relief. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired.”

“Yeah, well you’ve been in coma for quite a while, git,” John remarked with a slight annoyed tone, although internally he berated himself for it; what right did he have to criticize Sherlock, however teasingly it was?

“Just…stay awake till the doctor gets here,” John told him.

Sherlock nodded stiffly, but his eyes remained close.

*            *            *           

A couple of hours later, and after check up after check up with the doctors, Sherlock was back asleep, turned on his side though, indicating he hadn’t fallen back into a coma. John sat down in the chair by the bed and leaned forward, taking Sherlock’s hand in his and tried to keep himself awake through the rest of the night.

John slowly awoke well into the next morning, realizing he was laying his cheek on Sherlock’s hand. His neck and back ached, and someone was moving lightly beside him. John blinked tiredly and raised his head up as he squinted around him. As his vision sharpened, Sherlock’s face focused; his eyes were open!

John’s eyes widened and he audibly gasped. He was wide awake now, and as he pulled away from the bed to get a fuller look, his hand pulled away from Sherlock, who was the one touching his hand. Sherlock sighed. He parted his mouth to speak, but couldn’t quite pronounce a word right away.

“The aphasia should only be temporary,” John found himself saying, out of all things he could have said.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered around the room. He raised an eyebrow, questioning. John wasn’t sure what Sherlock was asking. His face must have shown his confusion, for Sherlock’s face twisted in frustration, and he bit his lip.

The heart monitor showed rising heartbeats. John took Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it gently, assuring him to calm down.

“It’s okay. I’ll find a way to help you communicate. It’ll be all right.”

Sherlock swallowed and his eyes glistened. John ran a hand through Sherlock’s curls; Sherlock’s eyes fluttered at the touch, and soon they remained closed as he fell back asleep.

*            *            *

The next morning, Sherlock managed to stay away for half an hour. John didn’t say much; in fact, they both avoided eye contact with each other. John kept an eye on Sherlock’s vitals while Sherlock tried to pronounce longer, more _Sherlockian_ words. He became frustrated quickly, in which John took his hand until he relaxed, and then he’d fall back sleep soon after.

John didn’t try to linger on his instinct to take Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock had accepted it, and it seemed to help, and whatever he could do to make it up to Sherlock, he would. He just didn’t know if Sherlock would forgive him, and he hadn’t come up with the courage to ask just yet.

Later, John helped Sherlock stabilize his stance as he straightened his back. Sherlock shook against him and was close to losing his balance.

“Just a few more steps and you can relax in the chair,” John said encouragingly.

Sherlock inhaled deeply and furrowed his eyebrows in concentration. He took two steps forward, paused, and then two more. He inhaled sharply as he nearly collapsed into the chair. He tensely shuffled around as he rearranged himself to sit down. His eyes flickered with frustration and, likely because of that, he shoved John away the second he was seated. John, startled, stumbled backwards.

Sherlock closed his eyes and his expression hardened. John clenched and unclenched his hands as he stepped back, urging himself not to feel hurt.

“John?” Sherlock said quietly.

John met his gaze, his heart skipping a beat. Sherlock’s expression was still hard, but as he spoke softly, his expression did so too, however slightly and his eyes trailed away from John.

“I need…a moment.” Sherlock took a breath. “By myself.”

John exhaled slowly, and carefully asked, “I can come back…after lunch—.”

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock said. “Tomorrow you can.”

John nodded slowly. With hesitation in his step, he took his coat, looked at Sherlock once more, and seeing him closing his eyes and placing his hands under his chin, John left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments truly keep me writing. Thank you everyone who's left comments and kudos. 100 already means so much to me! THANK YOU and stay tuned ;)
> 
> Song that helped me through: Love Will Tear Us Apart: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sHhVydgvuAc
> 
> Sherlock's POV next chapter!


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very, very short chapter. This fic is finally coming along but I didn't want you all to wait any longer. Enjoy :)
> 
>  
> 
> (Sherlock's POV)

**Chapter 5**

 

John walked away with hesitating, stiff movements. Sherlock almost called out to him to come back, but restrained himself. As the door slowly came to a close, Sherlock was alone. He remembered a little of what had led to the coma, but most of the memories were fragments of scenes and sounds, John’s voice in particular.

Sherlock’s eyes watered; he shook himself out of it. No tears, he told himself.

 _Just tell him_. _It was nice knowing you—no, not that. This is for his own good. It’s my fault. All of it. I…feel too much. Tell John…I should distance myself. Tell him…I understand. WE don’t have to continue this…arrangement anymore. Yes. No emotion, just business._

 _Just business—after everything you went through with him? For him?_ Another voice spoke in Sherlock’s head, challenging with himself.

_\--I can’t do this anymore—I can’t pretend I don’t love him. This will be easier—to cut off from him completely, cold turkey. That’s what usually works._

_Don’t let him see,_ Sherlock told himself. _Don’t let him see how much it means to you. Don’t let him see you crumble don’t let him see that he is the love of your life no, no don’t think that don’t—NO!_

“NO!”

Sherlock opened his eyes to see John standing in the doorway. He blinked again. Not a hallucination. John had come back.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are gold and I am Smaug :)


End file.
